Winter Superior

Published November 23, 2011 by wildleek

You could heal yourself
at the palm of the lake
all winter long,
far from the dead dog
in the past,
the frozen pipes
that flooded a drafty house
in a snow-drift valley
one winter ago or two.
And this–the hunger
of a needful season
of bones and bare

Here, the lake
and deflates
like a living lung
on the shore,
the moist breath,
breath gathered,
black and deep,
beneath deer tracks left
on snow-covered ice
and next to your own
wider set of tracks,
a weaving path from
black cliffs and
down to the place
where the ice slopes
at the edge and into
the water.

You may not be cautious
as the doe who came
before sunrise to drink,
to test the thickness
of ice,
the graceful sound
of shattering.


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